I'M HERE

For Watt

Beckett from across three pages, which I try to read at the same time – while three candles burn, while Bach pumps the organ, while my friend updates his status on facebook emphasizing that he likes to listen to Rabbi Elias talking incessantly, but that he also likes the Rabbi to get crushed by Bach, so that some silence would occur, while I listen to my friend and get astonished again and again because he gets it, all of it, and more so, while reading lumpy poems on the silly lumpy pudding website, while the organ suddenly takes over and the toooootally fat sounds hit you in the guttest of your gut, especially the uterus as the more anatomically specific oriented would have it, while the body sinks under heavy-weight thinking, and yet also floats in the air at the idea that all we have is words, performance, and costumes to enact the sublime, man, what bullshit, but we buy it, we buy all of it, because we sense it, man, how we sense it, that it almost makes us think that there must be more between heaven and earth, but there isn’t really, it’s all projections and mirrors, and man, how we want the best, the very very very best, the absolute best, the highest best, even Jesus said verily verily, the best exists, because we believe in it, man, can you believe that, that is just so astonishing, believing while remaining silent in the face of knowing that the other knows that one is ready already for the already, the already that has already happened, fuck man, where is Derrida when you need him to tell you that it's all very unique in that very deconstructive way, and sublime too, and verily and verily worth the while, but then he was a Romantic – Beckett says on the first page, because I can’t really read three pages at the same time, it’s all a bluff, Beckett says: “You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.”